


Mythal's Mark

by InArlathan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Back In Arlathan, Bad Evanuris, Death, Elvhenan, Gen, Murder, Mythal Is The Good One Here, Self-Doubt, Self-Harm, Self-Reflection, Signs of Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 05:09:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21069392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InArlathan/pseuds/InArlathan
Summary: Mythal was murdered and chaos has begun to spread across Elvhenan. Determined to avenge his fallen mistress, a desperate Solas escapes into Arlathan Forest before the Evanuris can catch up with him. In the end, he comes to a radical conclusion: If he wants to strike the elven gods down, he must shed his name, remove his vallaslin and leave his former self behind.





	Mythal's Mark

**Author's Note:**

> Another short story about how Solas got his scar. This one was inspired by Cole’s quote on how he “burnt her off his face”, too, but represents a different take on the matter. I hope you enjoy it! <3
> 
> I apologize in advance for the weird grammar. English is not my native language and although I enjoy the writing practice, some sentences might be super off. I tried my best!
> 
> P.S. Those who find the Hamilton reference get a special shout-out :D

> _Cry havoc in the moonlight.  
Let the fire of vengeance burn.   
The cause is clear._
> 
> _– from the inscription on the Altar of Mythal_

It felt strange to leave Arlathan behind, unnatural even. For so long, the city had been a part of his life that it almost felt like it had become a part of being. His very first memory was of Arlathan, the mighty capital of Elvhenan, welcoming him to this world and showering him with its beauty. And he, a young spirit who had just taken a physical form, had marveled at it.

The city glistened in the distance with the reflections of ancient stone and starlight. With each step, the days of joy and wonder seemed farther and farther away, until nothing remained but the dread and darkness in his heart. Yet, he knew there was no way for him to go back to what was before. The only way for him to go was _forward._

He sighed and turned his back to the floating city of Arlathan. Falling into a slow trot, the forest around him become denser and darker by the minute and the deep shadows gave him comfort has he made his way south, guided by slim streaks of moonlight that shone through the canopy.

The People said that the moon was Mythal’s first gift to the world. Countless songs told the tale of how she gathered particles of light and bound them to her will before she placed them as a silvery orb in the sky to brighten the nights when Elvhenan was still young.

It seemed almost impossible that a powerful mage such as the All-Mother could be killed so easily. But she was dead, gone from this world, and only the tales of her deeds lingered on.

Thinking about it brought tears to his eyes.

He’d always known that the Evanuris were vicious creatures. But to go ahead and murder Mythal outright? It was an atrocity, a crime so terrible he had no words to describe it.

For many, many years he’d though he knew the true nature of the gods. He’d watched their petty games and wicked schemes and learned everything he could about them so he might predict their course of action. But he had been too sure of himself, and in the end, the Evanuris had done the one thing he’d never believed them to be capable of: To dispose of one of their own.

They had taken Mythal’s life to prove their power before The People. In overthrowing the mother of Elvhenan, they’d struck down the last barrier that kept them in check. Finally, they were ready to ascend to true godhood.

A bitter taste spread in his mouth and he fought back the urge to spit. There was no point in that. Hate and guilt would follow him around for the rest of his life, for he had abandoned his mistress in order to safe himself. If he wanted to make it up to Mythal, he would have to crack open the skies and split the world apart.

He only hoped he could outsmart the Evanuris one more time.

The gods had always wondered how he was able to trick them, all-mighty as they believed themselves to be. Yet, they could never see what seemed so clear to him: No matter how powerful they became, the Evanuris could succumb to anger and jealously, envy and greed. Their feelings could be exploited, if one simply turned their whims and wishes against them.

All it took was the will to do so. His will.

Mythal had been the only one among the Evanuris to recognize this. That was why she had placed him under her protection, so none of the other gods might touch him.

It happened during an Hahren’al, one of the rare gatherings of the Evanuris, back when they had been nothing more than respected elders. It had not been long since he had taken a physical body and he was looking forward to the event as much as any new-born elvhen.

When word had spread across the city of the coming Hahren’al, all of Arlathan had prepared for the event. The residents had decorated their houses with works of flowers and shimmering stones. They had painted the streets with intricate pictures of the Evanuris to show their devotion and respect. And when Arlathan had finally been ready, thousands upon thousands of elvhen had entered the city to engage in the festivities in the streets that accompanied the Evanuris’ gathering.

He, on the other hand, did not join his brethren. He had been too excited by the notion to look upon the Evanuris at close range. Ever since Mythal had called out to him and the other spirits of wisdom to come into the Waking world to give guidance to the elvhen, he had wanted to see the woman whose words had enticed him to take a physical form.

So, he had signed up to work during the Hahren’al as one of the lower servants. To his surprise, he had been assigned the task of cupbearer to Elgar’nan’s entourage along with a handful of others. “Needs some quick thinking to handle his lot,” the elvhen had said to him. “But don’t worry, you’ll manage.”

Young as he was back then, he’d had only a faint idea of what was expected of him. Yet, he had been determined to do his best.

That was until the All-Father decided to take out his anger on him.

The Evanuris had gathered in the halls of Mythal’s palace for a feast of gigantic proportions. But from the beginning, something seemed at odds. Andruil and her people were on edge, as if they were expecting an abrupt burst of violence, and it made Ghilan’nain and her entourage fidgety as well. Elgar’nan scolded his children again and again and asked for more wine to drown his bad temper in.

The servants were quick to oblige. They brought amphoras with the oldest and finest wine and filled the golden cups of Elgar’nan’s entourage. As none of the other attendants could work up the courage to serve the All-Father himself, Solas stepped up to refill Elgar’nan’s cup. The older elvhen brought the cup to his lips, tasted the wine …

… and spat it back out. Red liquid stained the silvery tablecloth and ruined the decorations. “What disgusting piss is this?” he asked and threw the cup at him.

Solas ducked and the cup sailed past him. The metal clang with which it hit the marble floor rang louder than a boom of thunder. Suddenly, the hall of Mythal’s palace went very, very still.

Terribly aware of everyone’s attention, he straightened his shoulders. He might be a servant, but he wouldn’t have the elvhen laugh at him for being humiliated.

“The cellarer assured me, it is the best wine on this hemisphere,” he said in a calm voice. “It was grown on the slopes of Mount Sela’lyn, taking in light of the moon and the stars. They say it is smooth and silky and tastes of berries and wildflowers, though I’d never dare to take a sip from such a fine wine.”

Before he knew it, he added “Or would you like something _more aggressive_ to match your current temper?”

The All-Father stared at him as if he wished to murder him right then and there, his eyes as bright as the midday sun. “You assume you’re the smartest person in the room, don’t you, _youngling_?”

“That is only because… well, _I am”_, he’d said in such a disarmingly honest manner that it made the gathered elvhen gasp. “Unless you introduce me to someone who might match my intellect, I can come to no other conclusion.”

For a moment, he waited for the All-Father to erupt in a frenzy. Luckily, his wife intervened.

“You have to admire his audacity,” Mythal said and lay a hand on Elgar’nans arm. “Well, at least, I do. I might take him on as one of my entourage. It will amuse me to have him around. My servants surely can use someone to teach them manners.”

“You must be joking!” Andruil said from the other side of the table.

“I am not,” Mythal replied sternly. “I shall take this young man as my protégé.”

“But why?” asked Elger’nan, gesturing towards Solas. “He’s just a … puppy.”

Mythal smiled disarmingly at her husband. “Yes, but he won’t stay that way forever.”

To everyone’s surprise, Elgar’nan yielded. At least he was sensible enough to know not to enter an open fight with his own wife in front of their assembled courtiers. He would have lost face in front of his own children and given them an opportune moment to challenge his authority just as the All-Father had once challenge his own creator.

Nevertheless, Solas had felt guilty and unworthy of the All-Mother’s attention, as she was the best among the Evanuris, bright and just. Even from afar, he’d seen that. He never wanted her to be in danger, especially not on his behalf.

It was much later, alone with her in Mythal’s private chambers, that he found to courage to ask her, why she had taken him as her protégé. She had summoned him so she could give him her vallaslin and he hadn’t complained as the All-Mother marked his face with her blood writing.

When she was done, he rose to his feet again. He didn’t dare to look at Mythal directly. “Why did you help me today, _hahren_?” he asked.

Mythal chuckled at that. “You are a powerful,” she told him. “Maybe powerful enough to become one of the Evanuris. But that is not why I gave you my mark.”

“Why then, All-Mother? What have I done to deserve such a gift?”

“It is not about your deeds, but about your mind, _da’len_,” she said. “It is as sharp as the edge of a sword, quicker than an arrow released from the bowstring. With time, your cunning will leave its own mark upon the world. I couldn’t let Elgar’nan end you before you had a chance to do so. But don’t worry, my mark will protect you. For as long as I live, you will be safe.” She had smiled as she added: “And I intent to live for a very, very long while.”

Solas smiled bitterly. That long while had come to an end at last.

The sky above the lush canopy of Arlathan Forest went purple, bit by bit, as he ventured further south. His body ached and urged him to sleep, but he was afraid he’d never awake again if he lay down to rest. No, he had to keep going until he reached the southern border.

The journey would have been easier, of course, if he’d traveled through an eluvian. There had been several of the magical mirrors in Mythal’s palace and he knew all of their locations and destinations by heart. With them, he would have been able to travel to the south in an instant, without breaking a sweat. But it would have been too easy for the Evanuris to follow him to the Crossroads and trace his steps. He didn’t want them to know where he went. Not yet.

_Let them think I am a coward_, he thought. _Let them think I turned my back on my people, so their pride can be their undoing._

The morning sun rose higher in the sky, outshining the soft light of the moon. Around him, small mammals scurried in the undergrowth and flocks of birds that nested in the highest trees began their song to greet the new day.

That is when he stumbled over an old root and fell, his body shaking from exhaustion. He swore under his breaths and pushed back up to his knees. His hands were caked with mud and dry leaves.

He knew he had to rest, but not yet. First, he needed to find fresh water and, with luck, a handful of berries or mushrooms to eat.

Following the trails of animals, he looked for streams and small rivers. Thousands of them traversed Arlathan Forest. They had given life to the trees and animals around him for countless millennia. Yet, he did not find a single water course, only dry creeks that led deeper into the woods. He followed them, fighting of his fatigue, and until he finally noted the scent of sweet water in the air. His steps quickened as he made his way through the undergrowth. Sweeping aside twigs, he stepped out onto a clearing in the forest. In its middle, he found a small lake full of crystal-clear water.

He reached the shore and got to his knees. With both hands, he scooped water from the lake and drank. The water was cold as ice, but it refreshed his senses and cleared his mind. For a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the feeling and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, all he saw was his reflection on the water. The high cheekbones, the dimple in his chin, the bright lines of vallaslin that graced his skin. Unwillingly, his finger traced the blood writing that Mythal herself had given to him. “My mark will protect you.” He could still hear the words echo in his mind.

And the All-Mother had kept her promise. Mythal had protected him from harm until this very day. It made him feel even more ashamed for not having rescued her. Although there was nothing he could have done to save Mythal’s life.

Andruil and her hunters had taken him captive as he’d ventured to the west, conferring with spirits in the Fade. The hunters had locked him up in one of Andruil’s lodges to keep him away from his mistress. He’d had to smooth-talk his guards for the better part of a month before they believed it save to let him out of his cell.

Free at last and in the disguise of a great wolf, he’d wandered around the hunting lodge to locate Andruil’s personal eluvian. The one he was sure would bring him back to Arlathan. His heart raced while he ran through the Crossroads to get back to the ancient city. And when he did, he was already too late. The deed had been done and he had to flee the city before Andruil or Elgar’nan or any of the other Evanuris learned of his escape.

From this day on, Mythal’s mark would give him away as the loyal servant of a fallen goddess. The Evanuris would hunt him because of it.

He had to take the vallaslin away. There was no other way. It wouldn’t be easy though. The writing might be created from his own blood, but it was Mythal’s magic that had ingrained it in his skin, tying them together for eternity. If Mythal were alive, she could easily take the blood writing from him. But with the creator of his vallaslin gone, he needed to find something else that was directly connected to her power.

Looking down on his hands, he thought about the particles of light Mythal’s had gathered to create the moon. It had been the last time in all of history that someone had used Raw Magic to reshape the world. No other elvhen, not even the Evanuris, had dared to make another attempt at such a spell. They only used their power to hunt and torment, to indulge and please themselves. Maybe Mythal had known something about the primal energy of Raw Magic that she never shared with the rest of her clan?

_If the light of the moon possesses powerful magic on its own_, he thought, _I might be able to draw on its energy and redirect its power. _

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the moonlight dancing on the surface of the lake. It was more of an educated guess than anything else, but with luck, it might work. He had to try at least. But it would be several hours before the sun would begin setting again. So, he could find some rest after all.

Wandering along the shoreline of the lake, he looked for a spot where he could set up camp. Not that he carried much around anyway. He wore an old silk tunic and died pants as well as bandages to protect his feet from injuries. There was also a small pocket on his belt that held a few herbs that helped him dream as well as a box of matches to burn them.

It was almost midday when he finally found a small nook between the roots of an ancient tree that seemed comfortable. He cleared the ground of leaves, burned some of the herbs and settled in a sleeping position. The air was heavy with the scent of smoke. He drew in a few long breaths, then let his mind drift into the Fade.

When night fell again, he awoke from restless dreams in which he heard Mythal’s scream for his help. Reluctantly, he got to his feet and rubbed the sleep of his eyes. It would be a very long time, before he would find comfort in dreaming again.

Around him, the forest had gone very still. It felt as if the earth itself was holding its breath. He inhaled deeply and looked up. High above him, the moon shone cold and bright. No clouds blocked its silvery light. For a moment, he imagined the spirit of Mythal ascending into the sky to become one with her creation. For a moment, it was as if she was there with him.

Letting out a soft sigh, he stretched out his hands before him, his palms facing upwards. _Just one more gift, my mistress_, he thought. _That is all I need._

He opened his mind to the infinite possibilities of magic, turning himself into a vessel for its energy. Slowly, very slowly, the magic began to flow towards him and tingle his skin. His fingers twitched, but he stilled himself. He needed to concentrate if his plan was to succeed. And so, he waited for the Raw Magic to come to him and took it in until his body ached of contained energy.

In his mind, he pictured the magical power like a stream of water and how he redirected it towards his hands. A second later, soft light sparked from his fingertips and spread across his palm. The concentrated energy made his hands ache.

The glow became brighter and brighter and he squinted his eyes. When he felt that the magic was filling his body from head to toe, he brought up his hands to his face…

… and released it.

The pain that followed drew the breath from his lungs.

He gasped. Gritting his teeth, he traced the lines of the vallaslin on his face. It felt like liquid fire spreading on his skin as the light burned away Mythal’s mark. The tremor in his hands grew stronger as he worked his way from his chin and cheeks up to his forehead.

When he reached the skin above his right eyebrow, he felt a pang of intense pain, followed by a trail of warm blood streaming down his nose.

_You can do it_, he told himself, ignoring the blood and the pain._ Just a little bit more._

He forced himself to go on, to remove what was left of the vallaslin. With the image of the curved lines in mind, he commanded the magical energy to draw the blood writing from his skin. For a moment, he thought he might collapse, unable to finish his task. But kept going by sheer force of will until it was finished.

The magic fled from his body in an instant and left him feeling drain and exhausted. Shaking from head to toe, he sank to his knees and sucked in ragged breaths. Sweat had gathered on his forehead and mingled with the blood that dripped from his nose.

Slowly, he leaned over the edge of the water to look at his face on the mirror-like surface of the lake. He held his breath as he took in his face without the vallaslin. It looked … odd … unfamiliar... Like it belonged to some else.

More blood poured from the wound above his eyebrow. The cut was deeper than he’d expected, but not fatal. One healing spell and the wound would be gone. But when he brought his fingers up to the wound, ready to say the words, he hesitated. Something felt wrong about it, as if the healing spell would erase the evidence of his accomplishment. No, he would not heal the wound with magic. He would keep it, tend to it. And if it left a scar on his forehead, he would wear it like a badge of pride.

“It is done,” he said in a low voice.

The forest around him answered with rustling leaves and the soft hiss of the wind. He felt the cold breeze on his skin and wrapped his arms around his body. His arms and legs, no, his entire body had gone cold while he controlled the primal energy. It would take time to recover. Sadly, there was not much time left.

“They will come for me soon”, he whispered to the wind. “I must be ready.”

He pushed himself up, still shaking, and wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic. Sweat and blood stained the fine fabric, but he didn’t care. He would trade the silks for armor soon enough. Because that was what he needed to do now – prepare for battle.

It was pure irony, really.

In all this time that he’d spend at Mythal’s side, the All-Mother had tried to prevent a civil war among the elvhen. She had negotiated peace between Elgar’nan and Falon’Din. She had fought her own daughter Andruil to cure her from the madness of the Void, instead of striking her down. Even when Elvhenan had been in danger from the Forgotten Ones, she’d made sure they were banished rather than executed. Through her actions, she had taught him compassion and mercy and righteousness.

But without the All-Mother of Elvhenan, he needed to do what she never could. He needed to fight against the Evanuris, to bring them down, to stop their madness once and for all. To honor Mythal. To safe his people.

_Let them call me Fen’Harel_, he thought bitterly. _Soon, they will see what kind of beast they have created._

He looked up to the moon once more. Its light would guide him in the dark nights to come, for he would never forget what the Evanuris had done to his mistress.

The time had come to rebel.


End file.
